


Firelight

by Heirofpsyche



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: A world without Johnny Depp, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Christmas fic, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, The OC is a cat, its funny i promise, this was better in my head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 03:50:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9054058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heirofpsyche/pseuds/Heirofpsyche
Summary: "The real Percival Graves, who still has scars and whispers of rope-burns and a heart plagued with dread and guilt for acts that he didn’t commit."





	

**Author's Note:**

> A pretty long drabble about Credence's first Christmas with Percival after the events of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Includes a sweet cat called Tomasz! Totally unbeta'd so all mistakes are entirely my own~ This is my first step into the Wizarding World so please go easy on me~!  
> I tried my best with the formatting but am posting from my Kindle so it might be a little off. Apologies!
> 
> The poetry excerpt in this fic is from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman and DOES NOT BELONG TO ME. I highly recommend checking it out!
> 
> Merry Christmas lovelies!

December. 1928. New York City. Powder soft snow blowing gently through the night-time streets as drunken revellers stagger out onto the chilly sidewalks arm-in-arm, their shouts filtering across the glistening air and landing, muffled, at the window of Percival Graves. The real Percival Graves, who still has scars and whispers of rope-burns and a heart plagued with dread and guilt for acts that he didn’t commit. He stirs in his favourite chair as the firewood collapses, a fatigued edition of Leaves of Grass forgotten on the side table, alongside a half-full bottle of whiskey which has long since warmed in the heat of the room. 

The fleeting tendrils of his nightmares caress his thoughts for a moment, two, before they vanish into the ether and he shifts, reaching for his empty glass before abandoning the thought and taking up his wand, stoking the fire with a quick spell. As he reclines, he hears a creak on the staircase behind him, and startles, turning quickly, wand in hand.  
“Credence,” he says, voice laced with relief and tinged with fear at scaring the boy. He places his wand next to Leaves of Grass on the side table, and watches as Credence steps tentatively into the firelight.  
“I’m sorry”, an apology is the first thing out of his baby pink lips, and Percival wants to kiss every last apology from him until he runs dry, “I didn’t mean to…” he trails off, eyeing the whiskey bottle, unsure. Percival shakes his head.  
“You didn’t wake me,” he insists, “I was awake, just easily startled.”  
Credence shifts his weight from one foot to the other, shivering even in the warmth of the room as he stands before Graves in one of his old shirts. It’s much too big, slipping off his shoulders and revealing silken flesh stretched over delicate bones which Percival could swear are hollow, like a bird.  
“I…I was…I had a nightmare,” Credence whispers, “And you weren’t...you didn’t come to bed, so…"  
He stops and looks at Graves, shoulders shaking, eyes wide and lost, still clouded with a thin veil of slumber. Percival glances at the clock on the mantel; it’s close to midnight. He must have fallen asleep reading, he remembers promising Credence that he would only be a couple more minutes…  
“I’m sorry, Credence,” he murmurs. Credence shakes his head, still looking torn between retreating back up the stairs and stepping closer.  
“Don’t apologise for sleeping,” he says, and the corners of his mouth slowly form a small smile. He steps cautiously towards Graves, as though afraid he’ll snap, but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t; he’s different. Percival sits slowly upright, and opens his arms, exhaling a breath of relief which he wasn’t aware he was holding when the boy comes closer and clambers into his arms.  
Graves cradles him close like a child, a hand coming to stroke through his hair, which is finally growing out like he’s always wanted it to. The shirt slides up as he settles, and Percival seizes the opportunity to run his warm hands over the boy’s knees. Credence playfully swats him away, resting his head on Graves’ shoulder and nuzzling into his neck.  
“Sorry,” Percival says through a smile, a hand trailing up Credence’s flank, “I can’t help myself. I have a thorough fascination with your knees.”  
“I’ve noticed,” Credence murmurs, as he revels in the warmth. How anybody can feel so warm, so solid and safe is completely beyond him. He shyly kisses Percival’s neck, feeling his steady pulse and inhaling his scent. It’s a mix between fresh laundry, expensive cologne and a hint of ozone; like the scent of the air after thunder.  
“What were you reading?” Credence asks, spotting the tatty book on the side table, eyes lingering longingly on Percival’s wand next to it. Graves insists that they’ll go out to buy Credence’s wand the second that he is ready, but has so far been airing on the side of caution.  
“Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman,” says Percival, “my mother gave it to me. Its poetry.”  
Credence glances at him, surprised, “you read poetry?” he asks, curious about this new side to the man he’s fallen in love with. Another gentle side to him, which Credence craves like air.  
Percival smiles and picks the book up, careful with its fraying edges and yellowing pages. With an arm curled around Credence, he turns to the first page and begins to read.

//“I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,  
And what I assume you shall assume,  
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,  
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this  
air,  
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their  
parents the same,  
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,  
Hoping to cease not till death.”//

A warm, full silence settles between them for a moment, two. The fire crackles. Credence is dozing, drifting in his lover’s arms, lulled by the hushed tones of his voice as he reads, and Percival doesn’t rouse him; just reclines so that Credence is cradled against his chest, and sets the book down.  
An hour must pass, or more, because it’s well past midnight when Credence shrieks Percival awake. The Auror wakes to find him trembling, blinded by terror as he breaks the surface of his murky dreams and inhales, like a drowning man gasping for air.  
“Credence,” Percival holds him close, his own dreams fading fast in the wake of the boy’s fear, “I’m here, shh, you’re okay, baby, I’m here,” he murmurs comfort, petting Credence’s hair and softly tilting his chin to make eye contact; something which always seems to calm him down.  
He’s not crying which is an improvement, Percival notes, and he seems to come back to himself quickly. The nightmares have been plaguing them both ever since…well…  
Ever since.  
He shakes the dark thoughts of days past away, focusing his attention on Credence, who is breathing steadily and has closed his eyes, willing the nightmare away. Graves caresses his cheek with a fingertip, and when his eyes flutter open, they are surprisingly calm.  
"I was...its...you were..." Credence stammers, his calm facade faltering as his heart hammers in his chest. Percival slowly pulls him close, presses a kiss to his cheeks, his eyelids, his jaw, each one more tentative and gentle than the last. When their lips meet, Credence's anxiety has receded like the swell of the ocean.  
"A nightmare," Percival summarises, exhales mingling as he plants a kiss at the edge of Credence's mouth, "one of many."  
Credence nods, not wanting to break this serenity by retelling his dreams.  
“I’m sorry I fell asleep,” Credence whispers, “you…your voice is soothing.” Percival feels that he’s avoiding telling him of his dreams, and who can blame him? They’re always the same for both of them; hurting or being hurt by the other, and why would either of them wish to mar the moment with pointless blame and guilt?  
Percival doesn't force him, merely holds him close and waits for an explanation that doesn't come, because Credence is peppering gentle kisses along his jaw as Graves rubs soothing circles in the small of the boy's back, drowsy and sluggish with sleep.  
He's come to think of Credence as a boy, both for his youthful appearance and for his relative naiveté, but as he presses a kiss to the Auror's lips, he's reminded that he holds in his arms not a boy, but a young man. One whom is growing increasingly wanting and desperate and evermore eager to please.  
It’s not their first time, not by a long shot, but Credence’s inexperience always makes it feel like the first. He’s learning, of course, but as he fumbles messily at Percival’s collar it’s easy to forget that he’s not a virgin anymore.  
Graves grasps his trembling fingers, and Credence looks at him with an expression of shame that makes Percival regret stopping him. His face flushes, and he begins to stammer out an apology but the Auror silences him with a kiss.  
“Mr. Graves…” Credence mumbles as they part.  
“Please, ‘Percy’,” Graves insists for what must be the thousandth time—but he understands. Can a year of loving him make up for what Credence went through?  
How can you trust somebody with the same face after they’ve hurt you like that?  
“Percy…” he whispers, and the ghost of a smile adorns his face.  
It’s admirable on Credence’s part, really, that he’s had the courage to trust this Percival, had the courage to love him completely and move in with him, to trust him wholly with his safety and security.  
Percival will always believe that Credence is braver than most.  
“Do you want to go back upstairs?” Graves asks, “It’s late,” but as he says it he teases the shirt off Credence’s shoulder and plants a kiss on the juncture between his neck and his collarbone, eliciting a shiver and a soft gasp from his young charge.  
Credence shifts in his lap, trailing his hands across the Auror’s broad shoulders. He’s become more accustomed to touching Percival in recent days, but his touch is still slightly hesitant, cautious.  
Abstinence is the habit of a lifetime for him, and it’s a hard one to shake.  
Percival takes advantage of Credence’s relaxed state and bites his neck; hard enough to leave a mark, but not to bruise (because he’s had enough bruises, enough wounds, and some of the scars are just beginning to fade) and Credence moans, hands coming to coil in Grave’s hair.  
“Credence,” he croons, “Let me take you to bed.”  
The boy nods, face flushed, and wraps his arms around Percival’s neck. The Auror considers apparating, but doesn’t want to run the risk of splinching. He’s been drinking, and he’s tired, so he leaves his wand where it is next to Leaves of Grass and hitches the boy’s legs around his hips, lifting him with ease and carrying him up the stairs.  
Their bedroom is a safe haven. The bed is low, the wooden headboard draped with glowing stars of magical light. Graves notes that the sheets are undisturbed, and spots the tapestry blanket draped across the window seat. Credence must have fallen asleep gazing out at the city, as he has done many nights before.  
“You’ll catch cold if you sleep in the window,” Graves chides as he lays Credence on their bed.  
“Not if you sat with me,” Credence murmurs, arms outstretched and wanting. Graves descends on him, leaning on one elbow to kiss him breathless whilst his other arm snakes underneath his waist. He’s hard, and it took him less time than he’d like to admit, and Credence must be able to feel him because he groans and arches his back, grinding against him.  
Graves lifts Credence’s shirt—his shirt, he thinks fleetingly, wondering how his mind can think of such trivialities—and thumbs his hipbone. Credence’s narrow, boyish hips must be another of Graves’ fascinations, because he always lavishes them with attention. It always makes Credence’s heart swell because, he thinks, how can a man who is in love with his bony knees and callow hips be the same as the man who deceived him?  
It’s very simple; he can’t be the same. He isn’t the same, and this appreciation of Credence’s very bones is a near constant reminder that this is his Percival Graves, and not some impostor.  
The real Percival Graves, who is sharp and stern only when he needs to be, who bakes and reads poetry by the firelight, who has a fat ginger cat named Tomasz and a collection of faded postcards from every place he’s ever been to in a box beneath the mantel. The real Percival Graves, with scars on his heart and more guilt than any man should ever have to bear.  
Percival moves quickly now, slipping the shirt off Credence’s shoulders and realising, absently, that he’s not wearing anything else. He goes to question him, but Credence whimpers as Graves’ fingertips brush against his hardness, and suddenly he’s desperate. He quickly pulls off his own shirt, not caring when a few of the buttons go skittering across the floor. Credence’s slender hands join his own in fumbling with his belt buckle, their mouths meeting in a searing kiss as he shucks his dress trousers and underwear to the floor.  
He pulls away to grab lubricant, is back in a second, and he wonders if he apparated after all, but shrugs off the thought as Credence props himself up against their pillows, knees together, expression shy and wanting all at once.  
Graves presses kisses to his knees, coaxing them open, kissing his milky thighs and up, to his hips and his stomach, his chest and neck, before placing another on his mouth with a degree of finality, like an artist signing a painting.  
This, Credence realises, is how it feels to be worshipped.  
Percival’s fingertips are coated with a glistening, golden oil and Credence barely has time to brace against the sensation as they plunge carefully inside him. He wouldn’t say he’s used to it, as the familiar pull and stretch burns still, but he’s become accustomed to the sensation, and enjoys it.  
He lets out a throaty moan, grasping at Percival’s shoulders, as he stretches him open, fingers curling around his sweet spot. Half-formed words spill from his swollen lips, falling into some semblance of order as Percival withdraws his fingers and slicks himself up. The Auror groans as he swipes his thumb over the swollen head, enjoying the dishevelled look of his bed partner as he watches with fascinated and hungry eyes.  
“Percy, please,” he whimpers, and who could have the restraint to refuse such a plea? An idea forming in his head, Percival settles beside Credence on his back, lips forming a smirk as the boy looks at him, bewildered.  
“Come here,” he murmurs, and Credence seems to get the idea, cautious as he straddles the older man’s hips, kneeling above him. Percival grasps his hips, rubbing soothing circles onto the sharp bones as Credence hesitates.  
“Carefully,” Percival whispers, “If you don’t like it, we’ll stop.”  
Credence nods, and allows Percival to guide himself into the wet heat of his body. The boy whimpers, and reflexively tenses at the intrusion, but takes a moment to relax, breathing deeply until he’s fully seated. The Auror thrusts, hard, and Credence keens, loud and high, pain flashing across his face. Percival is quick to stop.  
“Shit,” he sits up, rolls Credence onto his side, before slipping out of him and peppering kisses to his neck, “I’m sorry, baby, I should’ve waited.”  
“It’s okay,” Credence murmurs, “I’m fine, I’m sorry—”  
“No, it’s my fault,” Graves insists, encircling him in his arms, “I forget that you’re still—I shouldn’t have--”  
But Credence kisses him, and it’s so unusual for him to initiate a kiss that Percival doesn’t want to stop. Credence runs his hands up Percival’s strong forearms, looping his arms around his neck, pulling the Auror on top of him, slender legs settling around him.  
They’re both still achingly hard, and Credence’s blood seems to be boiling in his veins as Percival grasps his thighs and hitches them onto his hips, briefly fingering the boy’s entrance to make sure he’s still safely prepared. He watches the older man, biting his lips in a way that could make Graves come on the spot.  
Credence throws his head back and moans like a man possessed, back arching like a bow, as the Auror sinks inside him. Even with the preparation, he’s tight, and it takes all of Percival’s resolve to not throw caution to the wind and fuck into the tight heat. He desperately doesn’t want to hurt Credence, though, and waits for the tell-tale impatient shifting of his young partner’s hips before he starts to move.  
He’s always thought that the term ‘making love’ was cliché and ridiculous, but that was before he took Credence to bed for the first time. Now he can’t think of this any differently, for it is an act of love. He leans forward to kiss Credence, feeling him hum and whine and moan against his lips as he comes undone around him, coming too quickly, hips bucking as Percival slows to watch him unravel, chasing his own climax just moments after.  
Dawn is breaking as Percival pulls him close, cleaning himself and his young lover up with a flick of the wrist and a quick spell. Credence, shivering slightly now, nestles closer to his warmth, pressing gentle kisses to his chest as he settles. The blankets crowd around them, and Credence finds himself being covered by the tapestry blanket (the only thing he’d brought with him from his old home amongst the Second Salemers, because he’d helped to make it from old scraps of beautiful, delicate fabric and he loves it for the good memories of his sisters).  
Percival noses at Credence’s scalp, fingertips coming to play with the long, dark strands of his rapidly growing hair. He inhales, appreciating the sugar-sweet, slightly earthy scent.  
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “for hurting you.”  
Credence is quiet for a moment, and Percival wonders if he’s fallen asleep. He shifts onto his back, gazes up at Graves, and smiles.  
“I’m fine, it’s okay,” he whispers, “I know you didn’t mean to.”  
The door creaks open, and the soft padding of paws across the hardwood floor tells them that Tomasz is back from his evening prowl. The tomcat must’ve spotted one of the buttons from Percival’s shirt, because they hear a playful clattering as the cat thwacks one across the room. He quickly grows bored, and leaps onto the bed, green eyes wide as he surveys his two humans.  
“Hello, Tomasz,” Credence smiles as the cat swaggers towards him. He extends a hand, chuckling when Tomasz pushes his head against it, demanding to be petted. Tomasz pushes closer, coming to rest between them, eliciting a cluck of disapproval from Percival.  
“Little attention-seeker,” he grumbles teasingly, petting the fluffy fur on Tomasz’ flank. The cat purrs, oblivious.  
The Auror pulls Credence closer, ignoring the disgruntled mewl from Tomasz, and captures his soft lips in a kiss. Credence looks star struck when they pull apart, that innocent and beautiful expression of awe clear on his face. In that moment, Percival cannot believe how lucky he is.  
“I love you, Credence,” he murmurs, and Credence’s heart is so full with love and emotion that he’s afraid it will break. He’s built to be filled with love, but he doesn’t realise it, and he’s afraid that his soul will become overwhelmed with it.  
Before Percival Graves, nobody had ever told Credence Barebone that they love him. 

***  
Morning light filters through the windows, and the shrill cries of children spill onto the streets of New York. The fire in the residence of Credence Barebone and Percival Graves has collapsed into magical twinkling embers, occasionally crackling and exploding into a burst of shimmering stardust. Credence sits, opposite the fire, wrapped in his tapestry blanket, knees tucked under his chin, Leaves of Grass in his slender fingers. He’s trying to make sense of all of the words, and he tries to mouth them silently, but some fall outside his understanding.  
He’s not entirely focused on the poems, anyway.  
He’d awoken from pleasant dreams some hours ago and, not wanting to disturb Percival who was sleeping soundly, had decided to get up and read some of his magical textbooks. Instead, he’d clambered into The Auror’s favourite chair and had tried his hand at reading poetry instead.  
Credence stretches, yawning, and places the book back on the side table, next to Percival’s wand which, Credence admits, he is fascinated with. The picks it up, enjoying the sensation of the cool, smooth ebony in his hands. It’s far too long for him, Graves has explained, and Credence agrees. He could never wield a wand like it.  
He often fantasises about what his own wand could be like. A light wood, he hopes, to contrast to Percival’s own. Shorter, yes, and perhaps a little lighter for his wrists, which are slender and delicate. As for adornments, he wouldn’t want anything overly fanciful or showy…something simple, he thinks. But he knows by now, as he’s been told so many times, that ‘the wand chooses the wizard’ and he can’t help but wonder what sort of wand will choose him.  
“Good morning,” he hears Percival’s voice from behind him and smiles, turning to see the older man clad in a pair of black silk pyjama bottoms, “having fun?” he asks, nodding to the wand. It’s not sarcastic or accusing; Credence is allowed to handle the wand whenever he chooses. Percival believes it’ll help him prepare for carrying his own.  
“Would you mind passing me that comb?” Percival asks, pointing at the pearlescent comb on the dining table. Credence knows by now that it’s a challenge, but he goes to get out of the chair anyway, and smiles when he feels Percy’s hand on his shoulder, keeping him down.  
“Would you mind,” Graves says slowly, smiling, “passing me that comb, please, Credence?”  
Credence takes a breath, focuses, and Graves watches him. He’s shown immense potential so far, mastering simple spells and charms within a matter of days, though he’s been having trouble with more complex spells, such as apparating, and with—  
“Accio!” Credence cries, and the comb comes whizzing across the room and into his hand. He stares at it in total disbelief, before handing it to Percival, who is also in equal parts stunned and impressed. He takes the comb, and rakes it through his own hair before perching on the arm of the chair and starting on Credence’s longer, messier locks.  
“I’m very proud of you,” he says, carefully teasing out a tangle, “In fact, I think you’re ready.”  
Credence’s head snaps up as he cranes to look at him.  
“What?” he says, “Really?”  
Percival hums in agreement, completely blasé and seemingly uninterested, but smirking all the same.  
“Really,” he nods, “but not today.”  
Credence can’t hide his disappointment as he slumps and whimpers a small, “oh…”  
Percival takes his wand from Credence and, “Wingardium Leviosa!” levitates the comb back to the dining table. Satisfied, he places the wand back on the side table and leans down to press a kiss to Credence’s cheek.  
“Not today, Credence, because it’s Christmas Day, and even the wizarding community needs a break,” Credence looks at him, frowns, but Percival merely smiles at him, “I’ll take you tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”  
“It’s Christmas?” Credence looks genuinely stunned, but of course, he’s never really experienced it before. Percival smiles, takes up his wand, and goes over to tap the mantel three times.  
The room seems to melt away, and soon every surface is covered with glittering lights, a Christmas tree erects itself in the corner by the window, and a flurry of enchanted snow sweeps through the apartment.  
“I’m…I had no idea…” Credence says, his awe and wonder being quickly replaced by dread, “Don’t people exchange gifts? I didn’t get you anything…” there’s panic in his voice, and Percival shakes his head.  
“Credence, it’s alright,” he pulls a small black box from the air, “I don’t usually celebrate Christmas, but I thought, perhaps, you’d like to have your first real Christmas with me…”  
Percival hands Credence the box and he opens it with trembling fingers. Inside is a ring; simple, brushed silver. No adornments or engravings. It feels relatively warm, and has a faint white glow. Credence opens his mouth to speak, to thank Percival, to say anything at all, but finds that he can’t.  
“It’s a protection ring,” Percival explains, “and, well…” its Percival’s turn to be lost for words. He clears his throat, “I can’t marry you, Credence, the law doesn’t allow it in either the no-maj world, or the magical world…so the very best I can do is this. A promise ring.”  
Percival kneels before Credence, taking the ring and his hands in his own.  
“My promise to you, Credence, is to keep you safe. To always be honest and faithful, to teach you everything in my power to teach, and to love you for as long as I am able. Simple promises they may be, but promises they are.”  
Credence’s breath catches in his throat. He’s crying. Percival reaches up to swipe the tears from his cheeks, and smiles at him. Credence smiles through his tears.  
“Percy…” he whispers, “I’m…I…”  
“Do you accept my promises?” Graves asks. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Credence refuses. He wants to show the boy as much as he can, would give him the world if he could.  
“Yes! Yeah, of course! I…I accept your promises,” Credence is sobbing, though the tears spilling down his cheeks are happy. Graves kisses his cheek, slips the ring onto his finger, and wraps his arms around him, pulling him forwards. Credence slides off the chair with more force than he’d intended to, and they fall backwards. He lands on Percival’s chest with a jolt, and laughs when he rolls them over, pinning Credence to the rug and peppering kisses across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.  
At that moment, Tomasz stalks over to them and starts to rub against Percival’s forearm. He is met with a stern glare from the Auror.  
“Tomasz, seriously? Again?” he sighs, and Credence bursts into fits of hysterics.  
He’s never had a cause to celebrate Christmas before, but now he does.  
Percival Graves.


End file.
